Toes

I stand at the edge of a precipice
My toes cry out
"Shingles! Shingles!"
A bird swoops lower to listen but
the words echo away to nothing.

They chose the words carefully,
my toes,
placing the rest under my odor eaters
squishing as I walk.

There too I keep my memories of you,
but I take them out now and then
and iron them.